


Castling

by Anonymous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 10:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15483471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Robb dies. Theon blames himself. It’s not as dramatic as it may sound.





	Castling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theonsfavouritetoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/gifts).



“They will not take this forest, for we will be as unflinching as these trees, as fast and strong as the current of this river that has already taken so many of their men!”

This is not, by far, the best speech Theon has ever heard - it is not, by far, the best speech he has ever heard the king give - but as always it’s the context that makes up for it: the king's daunting silhouette, bloody sword clutched in a mailed fist, the quiet of the forest around them, the gathered troops, listening in reverent silence as the branches above arch into a leafy nave, closing out the distant sounds of battle.

It is in this moment of calm before the storm, a second maybe before the men erupt into a cacophony of cheers, that Theon realises he wouldn’t want this any other way. He’ll gladly follow Robb into a thousand battles, rather than stake his own claim to the crown or, god forbid, turn against his king. 

It has to do, he reflects, as enemy soldiers burst into the clearing in a swarm of red and gold, with the fact that being king is difficult. Theon doesn’t mind the glory, but the rest... There’s councils and decision-making and whatever illusions Theon had about royal weddings were shattered when they spent an entire _afternoon_ going over portraits of princesses to select a bride suitable for Robb. All of the prospective princesses were either ten or fifty or, in one case, the mysterious survivor of a string of dead husbands (of course Robb had had to pick that one, and Theon well remembers how he looked then, the entitled brat, with his cardboard crown askew as he declared, grinning broadly, that "I’ll never turn down a challenge"). 

Theon fends off a first soldier and then a second, bringing the hilt of his sword down hard upon the enemy soldier’s helm and smiling as he hears a satisfying crack. 

It’s not mere laziness, and really if he had to play king for a day he would - has! in fact! he did so once or twice, in Robb’s absence. Beyond his distaste for courtly politics, there’s also the fact that Robb is so unbelievably _good_ at it, a born leader, with the perfect combination of good sense and bravado and unquestionable charm. Sometimes someone will protest one of his decisions but it’s all done in good cheer, and no one has ever contested his leadership. Theon’s undertaken enough campaigns by now that he knows how rare that is.

Fighting for Robb, he gets the dual advantage of not having to think too much, and of being able to use the time he doesn’t spend fighting to watch Robb much as he does now, taking advantage of a pause in the battle. Robb is wearing that damn crown again. It falls backwards over his curls, and Robb’s hair is a more believable shade of burnished gold than that handmade crown. Hair the red of old copper dishes, of the stubborn enduring glow of banked fires in the night.

Robb is a distraction, really, is what he is. And this might explain, maybe, why Theon is not looking in the right direction when Robb would have needed him to; why he’s looking at Robb’s confident smile and at his stupid hair, which shouldn’t look so good when Theon knows he hasn’t washed it in a week, and so he misses the knight in the bark-like armour and he only jerks out of his contemplative mood when he hears the twang of a bowstring.

When he turns back to the clearing Robb is kneeling on the ground, holding a hand to his breastplate as if it would stem the flow of blood pooling from the wound in his chest. Before he even tries to move, Theon is already ready to protest - no arrow should be able to pierce Robb’s armour, not when it was blessed by three separate witches that they had to talk into it over the course of a strenuous three-day quest -

“Fuck those elven arrows. They get three additional points damage if you shoot them in a forest,” Jon mutters. He’s sitting with his back to the couch, fingers flying over his joystick as if there was still a point in them continuing the fight. There isn't. They lost the moment Robb got shot.

“Do we still have that resurrection spell?” Robb asks, in what he must realise is a mere quiver of a voice, because he tries again, louder, “The one we were given after we saved the first witch from hanging.”

“No,” Arya answers, from where she’s crouched beside Jon, hacking up soldiers as eagerly as he is, as if the two of them had a bet to see who might get the highest body count before the GAME OVER screen comes up.

Theon is used to it. Jon and Arya being on the same wavelength because they’re ridiculously similar, all dark-haired and dour and seeming a lot more sullen than they would if they weren’t Robb’s siblings. Under other circumstances, Arya might have been deemed vivacious or bright-eyed and maybe Jon would have been considered cute, because he’s got a head of dark curly hair and the kind of sad mouth people used to write poems about. Next to Robb though, they lack lustre. 

And here Theon is again, thinking about blue eyes and copper dishes and whatever, and in the meantime Robb has gotten himself killed and they’ve failed to complete a level it took them a week to wade through.

“Fuck,” Robb says, with feeling, and he flings his joystick towards the screen (he misses, on purpose one may hope) and throws his head back against the couch with a deep sigh. The crown finally slides all the way back and falls behind the couch.

“I had three horsemen trying to stomp on me,” Jon says, craning his neck back to look at Theon. “What’s your excuse, Greyjoy?”

“What do you think I was doing?” Theon snaps. “Picking daisies? We were all busy fighting, bastard.”

“I can’t believe we lost,” Robb all but moans. “We’re going to have to sort through the princesses again. We can’t skip it. That whole thing where the ambassadors make their speeches; and you have to nod at all the right times? And the part with the fire witch where we always run out of potions… We have to do it all again.”

“Not right now we don’t,” Jon decides, finally throwing down his joystick, perhaps because he’s finally realised that he was hacking at tree stumps. “I’m taking a break. I feel like I haven’t seen the sun in a week. Maybe we can pick this up after dinner.”

“Ice-cream,” Arya says, like maybe the defeat has robbed her of the power of speech, and she jumps up with the kind of spring that Theon might have achieved some four or five years earlier, before gaming and downright sloth deprived him of part of his athletic abilities.

Once they're gone Theon twists sideways on the couch, raising his eyebrows at Robb. 

“Do you want some light?” 

He’s not particularly eager to get up, but he’ll make an effort if Robb needs him to, on account of Robb dying because Theon was too fixated on his red hair to do his job. Shooting down archers generally falls within his purview, kind of like Arya’s in charge of dirty killings and they call on Jon to either do the diplomacy or the heavy lifting, that is to say, to talk down ten angry mercenaries or to make a single-handed attempt at taking them out.

“Hmmmmfff,” Robb says.

“I’m sorry,” Theon tries, because it’s dark and Jon and Arya are gone, so it doesn’t sound as pathetic or futile as it otherwise might have.

Robb’s blue eyes blink open.

“Sorry for what?”

“For getting you killed,” Theon elaborates.

Sometimes Theon forgets that he’s older than Robb, older and by some accounts more handsome and wittier and far better at talking to girls and responsible adults alike (because he’s a better liar). Sometimes Robb’s self-confidence is impossible to work around and Theon finds himself craving Robb’s approval like it might actually mean something, like it might change him, maybe make him - if not a person worthy of an actual king, at least someone worthy of a king in a cardboard crown.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Robb says.

“It kinda was.”

Robb considers this in silence. Theon is almost done waiting, and just about done working on his witty callback, when Robb gives him a comforting pat - not on the shoulder, which would have been good-natured and brotherly and just the kind of thing Theon has come to expect from their ten-year friendship. No, instead Robb’s hand comes down upon Theon’s thigh, twice and a third time, sliding ever-so disturbingly close to his crotch.

“It’s alright,” Robb says.

If this were anyone but Robb, Theon might think that there’s something else at work. Some kind of double entendre. But Robb doesn’t do double entendre. He’s just Robb - bright and kind and so easy to be with. Which is why Theon should stop letting his mind wander like this, and it’s what propels him to his feet and then to the window, where he starts to wind up the shutters as he says, “Next time, I’d like to give a try at playing the king.”

“If you like,” Robb says. When Theon turns around he’s smiling in the bright sunlight, like maybe he didn’t mind losing so much after all. “I like it when you boss me around,” he says.

And for a moment there, Theon is back in that clearing. Listening to the whistling sound of that arrow, watchful for the bright flare of red once it’s found its mark.

This is the thing about Robb that Theon had forgotten: Robb moves through life fast enough to ensure that he never loses. There’s always another game, and he’ll win that one, or the next, or the next.

Theon reaches down behind the couch to retrieve the crown. It suits him better than it did Robb - his dark hair doesn’t curl every which way, and he isn’t so big-headed that he’d assume a win from the get-go. 

Theon is good at being watchful, it’s something he’s only learned out of necessity but in moments like these it comes in handy, in particular to give him an idea of the odds, and the odds are these:

(Robb’s breathing has quickened the moment Theon set the cardboard crown upon his head - he’s shifted upon the couch, trying to adjust his trousers.)

They’re both going to lose, but Theon will come out on top. There's a high chance this will be the best game either of them has ever played.


End file.
